Today, August 4, 20 years of Casting for Recovery in Maine will be celebrated at the Rangeley Region Guides and Sportsmen’s Association in Oquossoc. As many as possible Mountain Princesses, their family and friends will gather for their special union with each other and the volunteers who have enriched their lives. Through the efforts of Bonnie Holding our state has the longest running Casting for Recovery program.

Bonnie Holding Photo courtesy of Emily MacCabe Photography

Bonnie has been fly fishing since she married Blaine Holding, and the activity has shaped her life. She worked in the fly fishing department of LL Bean before moving to Stratton when Blaine became game warden in that area.

Like many Mainers, for decades Bonnie has been a seasonal worker. She is a Master Maine Guide, concentrating on fly fishing for trout and salmon. Although there were several other women certified when she began, Bonnie was unique in that she guided full-time every summer until 2014 when she accepted the position of Director of Information and Education at the Maine Department of Inland Fisheries and Wildlife. During the winter, she runs her own business. Gold/Smith Gallery at Sugarloaf is a jewelry store and art gallery, featuring local artists.

She learned of Casting for Recovery while attending a Women’s Health Symposium at Bowdoin College. Although not presenting at the meeting, representatives of the group were there to explain how their program could benefit women who were recovering from breast cancer. As she listened to the benefits and the way the programs were conducted Bonnie thought, “I could do this.”

And she did. For years she organized, located fishing resorts who would accommodate them, recruited volunteers, oversaw the retreats, and held fundraisers.

Attendees are responsible only for getting themselves to the designated fishing area. From that point, everything is done for them. There is lodging, meals, fishing equipment, guides. There are classes in tying knots and casting, entomology and related flies. There is a psychotherapist to lead group discussions open only to the attendees. As Bonnie has described the program, it is “All about fly fishing, and not at all about fly fishing.” As an attendee at the 2016 retreat, I have discovered the truth of this statement.

In preparation for one of the early retreats, Bonnie and a friend were walking around the Dollar Store, searching for little things to go into the swag bags. They wandered into the toy department and the admitted tomboy who was most comfortable with men and had never been a girly-girl noticed and kept returning to a display of tiaras. That summer, the first Mountain Princesses were crowned.

Over time there have been regular volunteers, chief among them Nancy Taylor, and psychologist Margaret Atwood. Fly Fishing in Maine began by donating to the program. It now conducts a ‘reunion’ each year for alumnae of the retreats, the only one of its kind in the country. Each year there are volunteers to teach the classes, as well as a private guide for each of the participants.

Casting for Recovery is a chance for breast cancer women to learn a new sport, a new way to heal, and a time to be with others who are going through the same things. As a participant, not a volunteer, I can tell you there is a spectrum of severity of the disease and a wide range of reactions to everything that happens to bodies, minds, emotions, relationships. This retreat was the first time many of us had been with others who were dealing with the same basic foe. There was also a lot of difference in the time that we had each known about and dealt with the affliction. Talking together in the organized group and on our own was incredibly important. We could discuss everything with others who not only sympathized but also were in the same situation. It was an incredible gift.

What Bonnie considers the most meaningful part of the program, the thing that makes her happiest is “…the smiles. The instant gratification that you could take away, even briefly, from the hideousness of it all. It is selfish. I get so much from the smiles.” “The smiles and fun.” Would there were more “selfish” people like Bonnie Holding! The labor she has put in for over 20 years to establish and maintain this event is monumental. The joy that she brings to 14 women at a time is priceless.

Bonnie Holding Photo courtesy of Dee Menear

Note: Most of this was printed as the cover story in Bangor Daily News The Weekly, August 2, 2018. This is an expanded, personalized version.

]]>http://vjennings.bangordailynews.com/2018/08/04/home/becoming-a-flyfisherman-celebrating-20-years-of-casting-for-recovery/feed/01121Becoming a Functionally Moving Body. Sleep deprivationhttp://vjennings.bangordailynews.com/2018/07/05/home/becoming-a-functionally-moving-body-sleep-deprivation/
http://vjennings.bangordailynews.com/2018/07/05/home/becoming-a-functionally-moving-body-sleep-deprivation/#respondThu, 05 Jul 2018 11:51:37 +0000http://vjennings.bangordailynews.com/?p=1111It’s little things that make all the difference in the quality of life. Long before my knee operation family members were nagging me about how little sleep I get. I agreed with both their analysis and the importance of changing that aspect of my behavior.

With the help of my handy Fitbit, I began the process of tracking my sleep pattern. I made a decision to not only plan to regulate a constant bedtime but to put that decision into action by adding the time I thought I should go to sleep (1100 pm) and how many hours (7) I wanted to remain asleep. At approximately quarter after ten, my watch will give me a little zap and something cute like, “Time to wind down,” will dance across the screen. If I am working at the computer, a similar message will pop up as an alert.

During my first year in college in a beginning psychology course, I learned how to form habits. This has proven to be one of the best things I got out of my university years. Habits can make life either easier or more difficult depending upon whether they are positive or negative traits. Lately, I have been developing several positive actions. It takes time and determination but it is amazing to see the results.

For instance, after wasting probably months of my life looking for them, I have taught myself to always put my glasses in their case on my desk. If necessary I have walked back downstairs to do so when I discovered I was wearing them in my bedroom. Simply putting them back when it is convenient does not nail the compulsion that a habit depends upon. Constant vigilance is required to establish this kind of reaction to something you are doing.

Getting to bed by 11 o’clock was difficult at first. We usually watch television in the evening, after which I have a few wrap-up things I do on the computer. It is easy to be led into a variety of correspondence, checking financial transactions, playing a game or two to “unwind.” But, this kind of extra time wasting does not fit into the schedule.

There was the impact on my family, too. Would there be time to watch another episode of something? Could we take a phone call from the West Coast? Eventually, my fetish with the end-of-the-day time has been accepted.

The most important thing I have learned from the sleep experiment is the various types of sleep that Fitbit can rudimentarily track, and their impact on the following day. There are values for total sleep, time awake which might include the slight awareness of rolling over in bed, light sleep, deep sleep, and Rapid Eye Movement sleep. The last is the time we are dreaming. One can be easily woken during light sleep but it is hard to pull someone out of deep sleep, the phase that has proven to have the greatest impact on my feeling of being rested.

Since my operation, Fitbit has rarely been able to record the fine-tuned results, but only the total amount of sleep and the total amount of wakefulness. I spend a lot of time awake during the night.

I have experienced very little pain with my healing. But, I experience a little pain almost constantly. Except for brief seconds of sharp shooting pain within the knee, it has never gotten above the 3/4 level. I am aware of it (3) but it is rarely bad enough to distract me from my activities (4). Since the third day after surgery, I have hardly taken painkillers during the day and switched from the prescription to otc drugs after the first week. Still, the level 3 pain is almost always with me, and I am thrilled on those occasions when I feel nothing.

Pain makes it hard to fall asleep, and wakes me often during the night. In addition to the healing knee, I prefer to sleep on my side and get very uncomfortable lying on my back. So, I don’t get much sleep, although I am obeying the rules I set about when to go to bed.

Sleep deprivation is an insidious opponent. It drains ambition, creativity, and energy. It makes it hard to do the simplest things. It destroys interpersonal relationships. It strips the joy from life. No pun intended, but I am really tired of not getting enough sleep.

]]>http://vjennings.bangordailynews.com/2018/07/05/home/becoming-a-functionally-moving-body-sleep-deprivation/feed/01111Becoming a Flyfisherman. Reunion reveals the kindness of strangers.http://vjennings.bangordailynews.com/2018/06/24/home/becoming-a-flyfisherman-reunion-reveals-the-kindness-of-strangers/
http://vjennings.bangordailynews.com/2018/06/24/home/becoming-a-flyfisherman-reunion-reveals-the-kindness-of-strangers/#respondSun, 24 Jun 2018 13:17:15 +0000http://vjennings.bangordailynews.com/?p=1082“I thought I was going to learn how to cast with a fly rod,” Gina, the stranger with whom I was sharing a room in a delightful guest house on Rangeley Lake, confided. “I had no idea what this was all about.

Like Gina, most of us were not prepared for our session of Casting for Recovery. The actual process of casting a fly line is beneficial to healing and preventing atrophy of the chest muscles that can occur following various treatments for breast cancer. We each were in a beautiful section of our state (CfR is a national organization). We had instructors and were anticipating meeting our personal guides for the culmination of the event, fishing in nearby waters. We thought it was about the casting.

Fly fishing itself is a therapeutic activity. One must live, Zen-like, in the moment. Unlike bait fishing, where the fish can be willing to hook himself by eating the offering, we are presenting an artificial meal. Fly fishermen must be constantly on the alert to set the hook if given a chance, because as soon as the fish begins to bite it will realize the fly is not food and reject it. Being focused eliminates the opportunity to worry, to stress, to do anything other than be. We leave the waters refreshed.

Because most participants are brand new to the sport, this calmness is one of the surprising benefits. Another shock is how close we get to each other, our guides, our support people. For many this is the first experience we have with sharing our particular commonality. Our families, although they care and try to help, thankfully do not share what is happening to us. At Casting for Recovery we meet people who do.

It is a program each woman can attend only once, and many who have gone through the experience yearn to do so again. Thanks to Fly Fishing in Maine, some of us have that opportunity! When the reunions began, attendance was limited to the Mountain Princesses (those who attended CfR in Maine), but several years ago the offer was extended to former participants in other eastern states. Maine is the only state with such a program!

Last year when I got the chance to attend my first reunion I thought it was about the fishing. As the weekend continued I learned it is about much, much more. The most moving segment was at the dinner on Saturday night when each person spoke about their day. Although encouraged to tell fish tales (aka ‘lie’), after the laughter-producing banter there was often the poignant reality of the new relationships. Many guides said it was the highlight of their year. Some began volunteering because a family member had cancer, and their stories were moving.

That big! Photo courtesy of Fly Fishing in Maine.

My guide, Ben Redmond, is the current president of FFIM, and we were partnered with Dan Tarkinson, who created the group, and his sport, Elaine, brand new to fly fishing and at her first reunion. I find it impossible to describe the silliness and camaraderie we developed during our truck rides and river walks.

Ben, Ron, and Elaine, my fishing group. Photo by Genie Jennings.

The generosity of the Rangeley/Oquossoc community is overwhelming. Ken Beaulieu, who organizes the event, told us that he had barely sent out notice of this year’s date when he began receiving offers of help. Restaurants provided a buffet for the Friday night reception at the Outdoor Sporting Heritage Museum; a Portland microbrewery provided specialty beers. Private landowners invited groups behind their gates to fish restricted areas. A float-plane trip was donated to one sport and her guide. A variety of lodging was provided at reduced rates. One group has consistently donated their time and effort to prepare a barbecue dinner on Saturday night, and the Cupsuptic Campground let us use their enclosed picnic structure for the party. Throughout the winter, fly tiers throughout the state produced hundreds of flies for the women who came. The entire region opened their businesses, their homes, and their hearts to us. We were embraced by the kindness of strangers.

Author’s Note. This article appeared in Bangor Daily News’ The Weekly on June 21. I have added pictures. Only one (That big!) appeared in the paper. The 20th anniversary of Casting for Recovery in Maine will be celebrated on August 4. Between now and then, I will doubtless be sharing more about this incredible organization as well as Fly Fishing in Maine, which has been hosting the reunions for the past 13 years.

Author became a Mountain Princess in 2016.

]]>http://vjennings.bangordailynews.com/2018/06/24/home/becoming-a-flyfisherman-reunion-reveals-the-kindness-of-strangers/feed/01082Becoming a gardener. I have been measuring time in confinement by the flowers I have not been able to pick.http://vjennings.bangordailynews.com/2018/06/22/home/becoming-a-gardener-i-have-been-measuring-time-in-confinement-by-the-flowers-i-have-not-been-able-to-pick/
http://vjennings.bangordailynews.com/2018/06/22/home/becoming-a-gardener-i-have-been-measuring-time-in-confinement-by-the-flowers-i-have-not-been-able-to-pick/#respondFri, 22 Jun 2018 11:53:04 +0000http://vjennings.bangordailynews.com/?p=1078Recovery from my partial knee replacement surgery has been both easier and harder than I anticipated. The surgeon had told my husband that we should “Wait until week three!”

Near the end of the second week, without thinking I stood up and walked without my crutch. Suddenly realizing where I was and what I had done, I stood in the middle of a hall without a close wall or piece of furniture to ‘surf’ as my in-home therapist had phrased it, slightly panicking because I did not feel stable. For the past several days I have made sure that one of my crutches was at each end of any journeys I might take without thinking. Since almost the beginning I have used only one unless on uneven ground.

What I had not considered was the fatigue. The swelling and pain that come on with too much standing or walking was expected. There was never outrageous pain. The stiffness and pain, if I sat too long at my computer, was expected, and I have not been able to do the swift 5-minute walks each hour that I had trained myself to do when doing desk work for extended periods of time. But, the exhaustion I feel for so much of each day was not anticipated. It is debilitating.

Somehow, I had expected to be in my garden and yard, although I had conceded that I would not be able to fish for several weeks. On the day before surgery after rototilling the entire garden space, including areas that for years had been left to herbs and flowers, we managed to get almost all the tomato plants and a couple rows of peas, cucumbers, and beans planted. Somehow, I had thought that I would be able to finish the planting in a timely fashion.

Instead, I have been a prisoner, able only to watch from my window as the spring has now turned to summer. The garlic is almost curled, and I am still hopeful that I will be able to clip it next week. I can see blooms on the peas but had failed to get their fencing support between the rows, and the plants are lying on the ground. The weeds are thriving, and chives have gone to lovely lavender blooms. Speaking of lavender, from my low-vantage point those plants are indistinguishable from the high grass.

Lily-of-the-valley were the last flowers I picked, except for the one afternoon when we returned from an appointment and I took a hobble around the yard to rescue one iris and one peony that were so large they were bent to the ground. It was my only foray across the grass.

I have been measuring the time in confinement by the flowers I have not picked. No lilacs, no bridal wreath, no bouquet of peonies or iris. I missed the poppies’ blooming, saw the buds ready to burst, then the fallen petals. The plants are in a position that is not visible from my window.

I cannot wait to weed, to hoe the rows of plants trying valiantly to survive; to clear the flower beds of intruders and finally mulch them; to finish planting the window boxes. There are five more weeks before I should consider kneeling, but there is so much that could be accomplished in an upright position! All it will take is enough energy to walk all the way to the garden and still be able to do something,

On Monday morning I had a Robotic Arm Assisted Partial Knee Replacement of my left knee. I was discharged in the afternoon when the spinal and nerve blocks had worn off enough for my legs to move allowing me to walk down the hall, and up and down a small stairway with the physical therapist.

This is what the nurses told me about pain and medication. On that famous scale of 1 to 10, 3-4 means you have pain that distracts you from what you are doing. (My interpretation: You are aware of hurting without the need to think about how you feel.) 5-6 means you are distracted away from what you are doing. (My interpretation: You hurt so much that you cannot concentrate on what you were doing.)

They told me not to let it get past 3-4, because once it gets to 5-6 it is difficult to get it under control. That meant that being in the 3-4 realm meant considering taking the pain medication. I did that on Monday when I got home from the hospital. I was careful to write down each time I took a pill.

The hospital had contacted a visiting nurse/physical therapy group who called late Monday afternoon to make arrangements for home visits. The initial visit was scheduled for Tuesday afternoon. Tuesday morning I felt quite good. I was able to negotiate the stairs to the ground floor, with my husband standing a couple of steps below me on guard for any problems.

After breakfast in my recliner, during which I iced my swollen knee, I decided I would be able to sit at my desk and get some work done. Between sitting with the knee bent and walking back and forth to the bathroom, recliner, desk, I was quite tired by lunchtime. I elevated my knee, put on an icepack and fell asleep.

The therapist was delightful. The exercises were not. I was appalled at the movements I could not make, exhausted by those I could. I joked that it felt as if I had worked out for an hour at the gym, but it wasn’t really a joke. It felt as if I had been in a full force bodybuilding session when actually I had been slightly moving my front quadriceps muscle. I was able to feel the contractions with the fingers I had lightly resting on the top of my thigh, although there was little resultant visible movement in my leg.

We went through patterns of rising and lowering myself to the chair, a brief review of climbing up and down stairs. I demonstrated how I maneuvered myself into the bathroom on the ground floor. She left me a short list of exercises to repeat, and I, again, propped myself in the recliner to elevate, ice and nap.

Because I had spent the week before the operation with a house full of family, a couple of weeks before that doing deep cleaning in preparation for the family visit, and the weekend between their visit and my surgery away on a fishing trip, I had not prepared food for my recovery period. With all the extra step-and-fetch-it things Stan had been doing, I felt bad about adding all the meals.

I decided I would be able to prep supper. It was not horrendously difficult to use one crutch and bring the supplies and food to the counter between the stove and sink. I chopped vegetables and chicken breast. And, suddenly, I was exhausted. Really exhausted. Crying jag kind of exhausted.

I hobbled back to my recliner, Stan got me ice and a big glass of water. He cooked and delivered dinner. I sat.

Throughout Post-Op Day 1, I had deliberated about each 3-4 level of pain that occurred. Sometimes, I just needed to wait a few minutes. Other times ice did the trick. There had never been a time during the day that I felt the need for a pain pill. About 10 pm, when I was getting ready for bed, I decided that I should take one. I still had to climb the stairs and change. Each activity was sure to intensify the distress within my knee.

On Day 1, I was not able to bend my knee appreciably more than the slight bend it had after the operation. I could not reach my feet. Neither could I balance well to put pants on the good right leg. It hurt to get my left leg into bed.

At some point on the day of surgery, someone had told me that the third day was the hardest. That was on my mind on the night of Day 1. My leg hurt. A lot. I was only approaching Day 2 but knew I had that ‘worst day’ in the future. I had taken medication at 10 o’clock. Then I had gone through a lot of physical activity including the painful movement of my leg into bed.

The medication was supposed to be taken every 4 to 6 hours. The first hours were miserable. I couldn’t sleep. I couldn’t relieve the pain in my leg, and I was also uncomfortable sleeping only on my back. I had had an ice pack the night before but had not thought to ask Stan to get me one before he went to sleep. Finally, at 1230 I decided it was close enough to 4 hours (only one and a half away) and took another pill. I slept for a while. Then it was 130, and then 230. Finally, at 430 I took the last pill I would take for the day.

I woke about 730 on Post-Op Day 2. I felt good. I accepted help getting dressed. I had learned from the day before. I had everything I needed brought to my recliner area. I did not sit at my desk, but, rather, had my legs up throughout the day. I did not attempt to help with any meals. Therapy added massive bending of my leg at the stairs, and ‘marching’ using the kitchen counter as a balancing agent. Going from foot to foot was definitely full weight-bearing.

I had come home from the operation with an elastic stocking that goes from toe to groin (and folds at the top because I am short.) The stocking was finally removed and bandage came off (except the part that will be removed at the doctor’s office.) I showered and washed out my pressure stocking.

My leg was in the open. I was also able to sleep on either side and to have a pillow under my ankles which was much more comfortable when I slept on my back. I took a pain pill before bed, but, even though I woke during the night, did not need more medication. Day 3 was not a bad day! If I were not as superstitious as I am, I might be inclined to think that I went through the very worst on Tuesday night! (But I don’t dare do that.)

Namaste. Tight lines, think snow (just not yet) and hoe, hoe, hoe. Someday I will be rejoining you in all the activities I love!

]]>http://vjennings.bangordailynews.com/2018/06/08/home/today-is-post-op-day-4/feed/01070Becoming genie. Today is the saddest day in the world.http://vjennings.bangordailynews.com/2018/03/30/home/becoming-genie-today-is-the-saddest-day-in-the-world/
http://vjennings.bangordailynews.com/2018/03/30/home/becoming-genie-today-is-the-saddest-day-in-the-world/#respondFri, 30 Mar 2018 17:10:27 +0000http://vjennings.bangordailynews.com/?p=1059Today is the saddest day in the world. Good Friday, although it is necessary for the happy Easter Sunday that will follow, is a day when my heart aches. The last week of Passover is a tumultuous time for me.

I did not come from a particularly religious family. We came to be Episcopalians by a distinctly non-religious route. My mother’s family were strict Lutherans. Their church did not have a choir so my mother, desiring to sing, joined the Episcopal Church. My father’s family were Roman Catholics. Our town had an ecumenical baseball league, but only for Protestants. He joined the Episcopal Church so he could play baseball.

I was Christened in the church they had chosen. Neither of my parents ever accompanied me to church, and I have no idea if they ever attended services. They sent me to Sunday School. I loved the coloring and the singing. I gleaned some information about what everything was about but got more from the Christmas pageants at various elementary schools.

When I was eight, we lived on Midway Island. There were no churches, but we had visiting chaplains, every couple of weeks, and I went to the Protestant Sunday School. When we moved to Honolulu, I went to the nearest church, which happened to be Episcopal. I knew nothing of denominations and because I was joining the church without my parents had no guidance from them. There was a long list of kinds of churches, but “Protestant” was not among them. Pretty much at 10-years-old the only thing I knew about my beliefs was that I was Protestant and not Catholic, but could have told you nothing of the difference. I checked “Presbyterian” because it was the most similar I could see to what I knew I was called.

So, I was an Episcopalian when it came time for me to go through the Confirmation process, and my parents insisted on my attendance. It was long and took up free days I would have much preferred to use playing outside but, if nothing else, produced one of the memories that always brings a smile.

During the week preceding Palm Sunday, we were asked to bring in a palm frond that would ultimately be burned and used for Ash Wednesday the following year. I had a little piece of palm from a tree in our front yard, but as I walked to class I passed a whole limb that had fallen. With great difficulty, I hoisted the end of the limb onto my shoulder and hauled the huge thing several blocks to the quonset hut that served as our church, snickering all the way and rehearsing how I would say, “You asked for a palm branch.” The authorities were not amused.

Because of my parents’ non-involvement, and, therefore, no affirmation at home of what I was told, I did not absorb a faith. However, I was always spiritual. I always felt a connection to something outside, what I called the Universe.

I went to various churches depending on circumstances. When we lived in North Dakota, I went to a Lutheran church with the people across the street. This church had a choir, unlike my mother’s. When we moved to Rhode Island, I went with school friends, who happened to be Episcopalian. They were very religious friends, and I joined them not only in the choir but also at Wednesday night services, as well as Sunday morning. I fasted during Lent. I was ripe for conversion.

Except, doubt crept in. I was disturbed by Christ’s reported words from the cross. “Oh God, oh God, why hast thou forsaken me?” (Alternatively quoted, “Father, Father…”) My question was, if Christ is the Son of God, as he made evident in the Temple, calling it “my Father’s house,” he must have known what would happen, so why did he think God had forsaken him? It was a hard question to face at 16, as it was later in my life. But, at 16 I asked the question at a Wednesday night gathering and did not receive an answer. You cannot believe how many ministers and priests have just looked at me blankly, benignly suggesting that I do not understand because of my lack of faith, and simply need to believe.

Still, I was very spiritual and equated that with religiosity and went diligently to church. Until I was 19. At 19, on Palm Sunday, having prayed and fasted throughout the Lenten season, I sat in a pew and listened to the most beautiful sermon I could imagine. He spoke of sacrifice. The sacrifice of Christ for all of us. The sacrifice we all should make for others in honor and replica of Christ’s sacrifice for us. By the end I was ready to toil, to struggle, to sacrifice for others. And, in one breath the man in the pulpit destroyed it. After the crescendo of calls for sacrifice, the amens, he said, “Meet me in the anteroom for coffee and refreshments.” So much for sacrifice.

I did not go to the room to meet him and enjoy the pastries the ladies of the church had provided. I walked out of the church and never returned. Except for one time years and years and many miles away when we brought our daughters to a Midnight Service on Christmas Eve. Except, of course, for weddings and funerals. I did, however, talk to several ministers of different persuasions, always with the same result.

All those men and all their learning at their respective seminaries, who could or would not answer a question, while there was such a simple explanation.

Jesus did not speak simply. He talked in parables. “Oh, God, my God, why hast thou forsaken me?” was not the cry of a horrendously tortured man. It was a message to his followers throughout time that He was the Savior for whom they had been waiting. “Oh God, my God, why hast thou forsaken me?” is the beginning of Psalm 22, a Psalm that evokes that day, this day. It describes the crucifixion, including the casting of dies for his garments. It is heartbreaking when we understand that it was a forecast of what was to come. And, on the cross, He told us.

There were still questions for someone who was not raised to simply believe. Today might be answered, with anguish, but the rest of this weekend and forever were also extremely difficult to understand. And, again, simply answered.

The disciples ran away when Jesus was arrested. For good reason they were afraid of what would happen to them. However, after a few weeks, they returned, spreading the Gospel, ignoring the horrible things that could, and in many instances did, happen to them as a result. The big question is “Why would they come back to certain ghastly punishment?” The only answer that makes any sense is that He returned to them. He returned and gave them assurance.

There were a lot of “I believes” that I learned for confirmation. I believe only one. I believe in Jesus Christ.

Enjoy your bunnies and eggs, and especially your chocolate! I wish you a Happy Easter, although I am still grieving over how we get to it.

]]>http://vjennings.bangordailynews.com/2018/03/30/home/becoming-genie-today-is-the-saddest-day-in-the-world/feed/01059Becoming a Functionally Moving Body. You would think I would know that I couldn’t just let things happen.http://vjennings.bangordailynews.com/2018/03/22/home/becoming-a-functionally-moving-body-you-would-think-i-would-know-that-i-couldnt-just-let-things-happen/
http://vjennings.bangordailynews.com/2018/03/22/home/becoming-a-functionally-moving-body-you-would-think-i-would-know-that-i-couldnt-just-let-things-happen/#respondThu, 22 Mar 2018 17:06:37 +0000http://vjennings.bangordailynews.com/?p=1055Since I got my Fitbit in December, my life has drastically changed. Some things have been coincidental, some have been directly caused by the device. For instance, I had decided that I need to move more often when I am at home and working at my computer for the major part of the day. Fitbit merely let me see the drastic difference between my movement both in the number of steps and in flights of stairs when I am teaching skiing and when I am at my desk.

My decision to walk for five minutes every hour was based on things I have read about the necessity to move throughout the day if one is in a sedentary job. Fitbit helps me keep on track with this decision by alerting me if the hour is about to end and I have not walked a minimum of 250 steps. However, this is a self-directed goal. If somehow I have achieved Fitbit’s hourly goal, I must keep an eye on the clock, myself.

Five minutes an hour is not much, but done regularly it adds up. On the days that I am home, I do the walk between 8 and 12 times. That is 40 to 60 minutes of walking. It is not the same as going out for that length of time at a stretch, but it is something and takes very little away from my work. I begin most days with the short, brisk walk. While I am walking, I stand tall and breathe deeply. My pulse rate rises briefly. I feel better not only while I am moving, but also throughout the day.

Before I had my own step-counter, I would often, at least mentally, make gentle fun of people who were trying to attain a certain number of steps and going to what I considered extremes to do so. For some time I have been aware of the number of steps I take in a day but resisted the urging of my little machine to go the default number of 10,000. This is a number that the American Heart Association has deemed all of us should be achieving each day. In fact, beginning with the Japanese, 10,000 steps has been accepted across the world as the gold-standard of healthy movement.

I have rarely taken 10,000 counted steps. (Fitbit does not pick up every step, nor does it always count the same stairs each time I climb them.) I usually get in the 5, 6 or 7 thousands. This week I decided to increase the amount that I walk. A big factor in the decision is that my ski season is ending, and I will need an incentive to increase my basic exercise on a daily basis. After much internal debate, I decided to set my own goal at 8000 steps a day. If this becomes my norm, I will raise that to 9000, and eventually 10,000. If it becomes my norm. That was my caveat. If.

The first day of my goal, I walked 8011 steps. It was a fairly active off-slope day. The second day I spent driving to several meetings and got in only a bit over 5000. This should have been fine, because I had only set the goal as an encouragement to move, and could not expect to drive to and sit through more than one meeting and still move around a lot. It was certainly a quantity that had been within my usual accomplishment. But, I was disappointed.

Yesterday, the third day after setting my own goal, I decided to up the ante of my hourly 5-minute walk, by taking the time to put on my boots and jacket, gloves and hat, and venturing outside to walk around my house. Five times. Each trip consumes approximately 200 steps. I questioned my motives. Last night my total steps were over 7600. I had to fight to not trudge around my inside track to make those extra 300 and something steps. Exercising just before bed is not conducive to falling asleep. Two of my goals were in conflict.

You would think that I would have known I could not just let things happen. My intention of simply having the goal, seeing how often I achieved the goal, and gradually doing more had lasted for merely two days. Now, I was not looking at the success of moving for the agreed upon number of steps, now I was looking at my failure to do so. My carrot had become a stick.

Of course, this is not a bad thing. Fitbit has changed a lot of what I do. One goal I had prior to the acquisition of my erstwhile inquisitor was to lose weight. I have done very little overtly to do so, but by being aware of what I am eating (although I have stopped keeping track of what I eat on the Fitbit site) and having my weight announced each time I open the app, I have lost a few pounds. I am over half-way to my goal.

Increasing my water intake has very likely had an impact on my weight. Instead of drinking juice with both my lunch and dinner, I now drink water at one meal. The extra water also makes me feel fuller, so I might be eating slightly less. Whatever the causes, losing weight has been painless and required little attention to my actual changes in eating.

Starting today, I most likely will be found trudging through the snow around my house twice a day. Getting in those steps!

]]>http://vjennings.bangordailynews.com/2018/03/22/home/becoming-a-functionally-moving-body-you-would-think-i-would-know-that-i-couldnt-just-let-things-happen/feed/01055Becoming Irrationally Self-Sufficient. Let’s find a point on which we can all agree.http://vjennings.bangordailynews.com/2018/02/28/home/becoming-irrationally-self-sufficient-lets-find-a-point-on-which-we-can-all-agree/
http://vjennings.bangordailynews.com/2018/02/28/home/becoming-irrationally-self-sufficient-lets-find-a-point-on-which-we-can-all-agree/#respondWed, 28 Feb 2018 17:43:05 +0000http://vjennings.bangordailynews.com/?p=1039This has been another horrendous few weeks for those of us engaged in human rights activism. I believe that we all have a right to life, and a right to protect that life and the lives of those around us. In order to protect our lives, we must be allowed the means to do so. If we are denied the means to the basic human right of self-defense, we are denied the right to life itself.

I believe, also, in the ancient concept that those who would kill or commit serious bodily harm to another person, through their actions are giving up their own right to life. The United States is one of the very few countries in the world that allows self-defense. The Second Amendment of our Constitution is an acknowledgment of the inherent right of citizens to protect themselves, their loved ones, and those around them.

Within hours of the school shooting in Florida, children from the school were promoting a campaign to demand the removal of guns from private citizens. One cannot and should not engage in arguments with children who have been traumatized.

We want our loved ones safe. Whenever someone experiences a terrible loss, one of the coping mechanisms to overcome the pain is to try to protect others from the same situation. Following the lead of Mothers Against Drunk Driving, which has successfully instituted an acceptance of stopping scores of people who have demonstrated no sign of impairment, the cry of the bereaved has become, “I want to make sure that no one will ever have to go through this, again.”

Sadly, no matter what the cause of the anguish, others will most likely go through the same thing. There are still hundreds killed and maimed every year by drunk drivers. Interrupting the travel of thousands of completely sober people did not stop the carnage on our roads. There is truly nothing we can do to make sure that no one will have to go through the pain we might suffer. While it may comfort us briefly to think we are doing something to make a difference, that comfort, good in itself, is all we will accomplish.

There are real things we adults can do. Whether you share my philosophy or not, whether you want to ban or to protect private ownership of guns, there are many feelings that we share. There are many varied ideas about how to ensure our children’s safety in schools and other public places.

Let’s find a point on which we can all agree. If there is a catastrophe at a school, be it a shooting, a bombing (the greatest loss of life was from a bomb in 1927 when 44 students were killed in Bath Township, Michigan), or a natural disaster such as an earthquake or hurricane, many of the victims do not die immediately. Many of those who could be saved die from blood loss.

There is a simple, relatively inexpensive thing that we each could do TODAY in our school districts. There is a special kind of bandage that has been used for years in combat zones that will stop a lot of the blood loss. Staff, even students, can be trained to use this life-saver. Schools can purchase the product easily. It is available online, and a package of 4 yards costs approximately $40.

Many disaster victims die, not from the original injury, but from blood loss while they await medical attention. This product could save many lives.

Some training is required to learn the most effective way of using the bandage. This is a course that could easily be included in a first aid curriculum. Recently, several members of the South Berwick Rod and Gun Association participated is such a program. (One can glean important peripheral information from any presentation. Stephen Whitney, one of the attendees, cautions that some of the similar products on the market are made from clam protein that could cause serious, possibly fatal, reactions in people with shellfish allergies.)

A little training, an outlay of money that could readily come under ‘petty cash; miscellaneous’ in most school budgets.

What if we could save just one life?

]]>http://vjennings.bangordailynews.com/2018/02/28/home/becoming-irrationally-self-sufficient-lets-find-a-point-on-which-we-can-all-agree/feed/01039Becoming a Functionally Moving Body. We need educated eyes to assess our movements.http://vjennings.bangordailynews.com/2018/02/03/skiing/becoming-a-functionally-moving-body-we-need-educated-eyes-to-assess-our-movements/
http://vjennings.bangordailynews.com/2018/02/03/skiing/becoming-a-functionally-moving-body-we-need-educated-eyes-to-assess-our-movements/#respondSat, 03 Feb 2018 17:14:38 +0000http://vjennings.bangordailynews.com/?p=1032Good ski instructors spend a lot of time learning Movement Analysis. Before we can make reasonable changes in a person’s skiing, we have to understand what they are doing. We watch what is happening between the skis and the snow, how the skier’s body is moving, and make an assessment of what they are doing. It is important to be able to decide whether we are seeing a cause or an effect.

If we skip these steps and suggest doing something that, although in itself is a good thing to do but for a particular skier might be inappropriate, we have a poor lesson. At best the skier might learn nothing. At worst he might learn to move in a counterproductive way and leave us worse than when he came.

I start here because life is a microcosm of skiing, and everything relates to the slopes. Possibly more important than skiing, if such a thing exists, is movement assessments made by a physical therapist or personal trainer. With all three of these professionals, ‘that which does not kill me’ might temporarily or, worst case, permanently maim me.

After undergoing radiation therapy for my breast cancer, the hospital where I received the treatment offered me a 3-month membership in a local health club. In retrospect, my deferment of the offer until I considered myself fairly recovered from the effects of surgery and radiation was a bad decision. However, the program in which I enrolled had very positive results.

Not only did I have two days a week of instruction and coaching, I also was able to attend other classes. At least four times a week I went to yoga. At the end of my medical session, I became a member of the club. Soon, my husband joined me. I had a very productive year. During that time I hired a personal trainer to continue the work I had begun.

Life happened. I left the area, the trainer, and the club. I had a different but complimentary exercise program in my new location. I continued to improve.

The summer before last, I began to have pain in the outer side of my left knee, and in a very short time found that any lateral or twisty movements were to be avoided.

My knees and hips, especially on the left, have given me trouble for a long time. It is a price to pay for asking them to do strenuous, repetitive tasks for extended periods of time. Several years ago, my sports medicine doctor had prescribed a cortisone shot which helped with the inflammation for almost a year. We had discussed and agreed upon the efficacy of an injection in early winter after a month or two of skiing had irritated the joint that is also suffering from osteoarthritis.

This was a different pain. Eventually, the alternate muscles and movement patterns my body was utilizing started affecting my hip, also. Early last summer I embarked on a physical therapy regimen to rectify both the movements and the joints. I have already raved about the Functional Movement-adhering therapist with whom I have been working. My muscles and movements are better than they have been in thirty years.

Except for my knee. After improving for several weeks, one day I found I was unable to walk down the stairs without a lot of pain. Next, walking upstairs was difficult. My therapist changed exercises and focus. The doctor tried a different treatment, but it was not effective for me.

My hope had changed from being strong and ready for ski season, to finishing ski season, to getting through each day of ski season. Therapy has centered on incorporating fundamental movements, strengthening the muscles of my mid and lower body, and stretching several muscle groups that age had contracted while my attention was elsewhere.

Something we exercisers overlook as we embark and proceed in our fitness pursuits is that we need educated eyes to assess our movements. Our bodies are designed to operate in specific ways. We have groups of muscles, bones and connective tissues that are charged with performing certain tasks.

However, our bodies have an overriding desire to accomplish whatever they are asked to do. If the systems responsible for a certain movement are not functioning properly, another part will do what it can to achieve the goal. However, nothing is able to do two things at once, so the task that helpful group is responsible for will have to be done by another. Additionally, if muscles are not doing the work they are supposed to do, the brain will not send reinforcements to repair and build them. Our bodies become a mess.

I am a perfect example of this. When my back muscles were sliced and the backs of vertebrae were removed to access the tumor within my spinal column, my midback became rigid. Some of the rigidity was due to trauma and scar tissue; some to the protectiveness I felt towards this now-vulnerable area. Unfortunately for me, the midback is responsible for the mobility of the upper body. We need to twist in exactly the place upon which I was operated.

Because I could not move at that point in my back, my body turned my torso. But, the torso is responsible for stability. That ‘core’ we are always trying to strengthen is supposed to recognize movement and tighten to keep us stable while we are in motion.

Sadly, most of the time we spend ‘strengthening our core’ we are staying in one position, so we are building muscle that neither knows nor responds to its purpose. My body had gone further. It was using the area for the opposite purpose. Therefore, my hips took over the stability job, instead of their mobility purpose. The jobs were done, but not well. Also, because the hips were trying to do two things, they would drop one to do the other if it became critical. When they were keeping me steady, my knees would take the brunt of the movement. Knees are not very good at this. They serve as both stabilizers and mobilizers, but they are designed to augment, not work alone.

At last week’s therapy session we reviewed the exercises with which I had been having trouble. Things had changed in the performance of two modified lunge movements. Upon examination, my therapist determined that the discomfort/pain I felt was not in the muscles that should have been involved. His conclusion was that I was not able to do the movement as it was intended to be done, and the system responsible for the opposing movement was trying, fairly unsuccessfully, to do it.

Those exercises have been removed from my program. Instead, I have things to do to stimulate and stretch the proper muscles differently. Practicing and repeating the wrong moves makes us very good at doing the wrong things. Rick Patino, “Practice does not make perfect. Perfect practice makes perfect.”

A journey of a thousand miles might begin with one step, but if that step is in the wrong direction we will not arrive anywhere near our goal. It is very difficult for us to see what we are doing. We need coaches and therapists to see and understand how we are moving and help us be more effective. We cannot rely on our bodies to do what they should because they will always try to accomplish the task in some way. Many of the ways they find when the correct parts are not available are not only not helpful, they are detrimental.

Think snow. First move well.

]]>http://vjennings.bangordailynews.com/2018/02/03/skiing/becoming-a-functionally-moving-body-we-need-educated-eyes-to-assess-our-movements/feed/01032Becoming a Functionally Moving Body. Fitbit is changing my life.http://vjennings.bangordailynews.com/2018/01/28/home/becoming-a-functionally-moving-body-fitbit-is-changing-my-life/
http://vjennings.bangordailynews.com/2018/01/28/home/becoming-a-functionally-moving-body-fitbit-is-changing-my-life/#respondSun, 28 Jan 2018 17:14:08 +0000http://vjennings.bangordailynews.com/?p=1025In December almost exactly a year after I gave my husband a Fitbit that I thought might augment his exercise program, he regifted the fancy watch to me. This is a much better match than it was for him.

It works for me because I spend a lot of my time in front of my computer, and the Fitbit and computer are synchronized. I can see how I am doing on my screen. In the beginning, it was just something I thought I would use to see how much, if any, exercise I was getting. For several years I have listened to friends, and often total strangers out in public, discuss their “steps. ‘I have made gentle fun of good friends deciding to walk instead of getting a ride, knowing they were just trying to “get their steps.” In reality, I was a little jealous of the determination.

Fitbit does much more than count steps, although the counting of steps and staircases is prominent in discussions. It is merely the gateway drug to get one hooked on the system. In addition to how many times your feet move, you can measure how much water you drink, how many calories you consume and use, heartbeats per minute, how long and well you sleep.

I started slowly. In the first week, I merely wanted to see how much I moved and set no goals. I still have not set a goal for steps. The second week I had the device was Christmas vacation. I was working at Sunday River, taught a Learn-to-Ski class and racked up 27 flights of stairs walking up the learning slope.

That was an eye-opener! Not that I have not always been aware of the energy expended in some classes, but having it recorded in such a way was incredible. No wonder it is tiring! 27 flights of stairs in 3 hours. There were other flights of stairs during the day, too. Actual stairs I climbed at work and at my condo. (Fitbit only counts climbing up and does so by measuring a change in altitude. The stairway in my house between the first floor and the basement does not register, regardless of how many trips I make up those steps, often carrying full laundry baskets.)

The first thing I decided to play with was weight loss. I entered my current and desired weights along with a time frame to meet the goal. I received a suggestion of how much difference per day between input and output I would need to accomplish the outcome.

Measuring input required that I enter what I was eating. A food diary is often suggested as a tool for changing weight. I’ve found keeping one cumbersome and time-consuming and never continued with it for long. This system calculates the calories, so that is one thing I do not have to do. There are many times I dread having to admit to Fitbit what I have eaten. There are many times I do not meet the required in/out difference. There have been times that I not only did not meet the recommended fewer calories but actually went over the total I had expended during the day. But there have not been many.

It has also led me to make a decision at the time whether or not to eat a particular item. “Do I want to have to write this down?” is the question I have to answer. Obviously, I could simply not enter the data, but who am I trying to trick? Myself! So I type in everything I eat. And, sometimes, I answer in a way that means I do not have it to record.

Next, I began examining my sleep patterns, because both my husband and daughters keep telling me I do not get enough sleep. They are correct, of course. I began with simply paying attention to the length and type of sleep I was getting.

Fitbit produces several types of charting for the amount of time you spend sleeping. These designate light sleep, deep sleep, REM (rapid eye movement; the time you might be dreaming) and awake. There was good news and bad news. I was spending a lot of time either awake or in light sleep and very little in deep sleep most nights. However, I was awake a lot less than I thought and fell asleep a lot sooner than I thought most nights. Then there was the night I crashed and got over seven hours sleep, most of it deep.

Now I have set a goal of seven hours a night. Coupled with my preferred waking up time, Fitbit gives me a buzz when I should be winding down in order to get to bed. I have not yet always obeyed the suggestion. If nothing else, I am aware of when I should be stopping.

In the back of my mind, I know that most of the people who talk about their trackers are trying to accomplish 10,000 steps a day. Ten thousand. I have gotten into the eights and once or twice nines, but usually average between five and six thousand steps a day. I have yet to set a goal. I just keep track.

My life is divided into two very different segments. Part of the time I work as a ski instructor. During that time, I am quite active. Even if I am not working on-snow, from approximately 7:30 am until after 4:00 pm I am wearing ski boots as I clomp around the resort and up and down stairs. The other part of my life finds me in front of a computer for a large part of the day.

The extreme difference between my lifestyles was shocking. I went from a week of well over 6000 steps a day to about 2500 on the first day I was home working in my office. Definitely not a good thing, but, how was I to change? I wasn’t just lounging around. I was working. The things I was doing had to be done. It was hard to find the time to squeeze in the exercises for my physical therapy. Still, sedentary lives are not good for bodies especially as we get older. Something had to change.

My decision was to walk for five minutes every hour. Happily, Fitbit has a notification for that. The default goal is 250 steps per hour. If you have not made this minimum by ten minutes before the end of the hour, you will feel a little buzz. If you look at the dial you will get cute little reminders such as “Take me for a walk!” “Only 249 steps to go!”

The open concept of our house is perfect for my five-minute walk. Down the hall, around the corner, back through the kitchen, around to the hall. It is long enough that I can move comfortably. I make about three laps a minute.

It was difficult in the beginning because it was unnatural. My husband and I made jokes about it. However, it felt good. I would actually get my heart rate up. After a few days, I started feeling a slight ache in the very top of my legs. I was working muscles! There were times I could not get up immediately when the zap hit my wrist because I was working on something that required minute attention. However, as time went and I became dedicated to the project I became more slavish to the request. Now, like a Pavlovian dog, when my Fitbit buzzes me, I get right up and start walking around my lap track.

Then there is the water. In the lower left-hand corner of my screen, there are eight little glasses. They represent the suggested amount of water to drink each day. The recommendation has not changed in all the years I have known, and pretty much ignored the advice. My friend Carmen had one of the best systems for drinking water. She had two little bowls and eight pretty stones that she moved from one to the other as she consumed water throughout the day. I tried it at one time but did not follow through.

Neither had I planned to bother with the water. However, there those little glasses are every time I sync my Fitbit with the computer. Just there. Until one day I started ‘”filling” them. It was not too hard to get up to five or six when I was working at the mountain because I have drunk hot water whenever possible to both warmup and rehydrate. However, things were quite different at home. First, I was quite happy to fill four of the glasses, now I am dismayed if I have fewer than six, and am approaching eight on a fairly regular basis. This is one of my latest challenges.

It has been an interesting month. A month full of changes I had not intended. Listening to people talk about their steps, I had thought it might be encouraging to my husband to use the tracker. However, counting steps is only a fraction of the benefits available. With only the Fitbit on my wrist, I do not think I would have become enamored. Connected to my computer, showing all kinds of possibilities for improvement, it is encouraging me to do many things. How long I will continue, where these alterations might lead, is unknown. But, for the past month, habits are being formed. Better habits.

Author’s Note: I am not paid by or endorsing Fitbit. There are many such trackers on the market. This just happens to be the one I bought.